PleaseRoy
by Turiel
Summary: Ill fate sees Roy sunken deep into anorexia. Rare in males, but possible, especially given the circumstances. Hughes, captured by the raw pain in Roy's essence, feels drawn towards him. But blossoming romance cannot always overcome mental degradation.
1. Chapter 1

** Please Roy… **

R, slash, AU, pre-manga.

Author's notes:

I shall place this fiction before the manga started to stop the ranks from mixing up with the plot. You know, like subordinates not interfering with their superiors' lives. If Roy was a Lt. Col. when the manga first started, Hughes would probably be a Major. In this fiction I shall just take Roy as a Lt. Col and Roy as a Lt. Col. as well. Before the Ishbal War and before Hughes is promoted for dying in the line of duty. This is rather confusing. Ah well, enjoy. :o)

Chapter One:

Roy stood in front of his full length mirror. A drop of water trickled from his damp hair, running down his cheek. Coal eyes followed the little droplet's path down a strong, fair jaw, into the hollow of a creamy neck. A fatter droplet ran down defined pectorals and a six pack. It disappeared into a towel wrapped around slim hips. Roy smirked as he thought about where that little droplet might have gone had the towel not been there.

"Admiring yourself again?"

Roy whipped around.

"God, Hughes. I could have crisped you."_ So this_ _is why he's in intelligence..._

Calloused fingers slipped into smooth slender ones.

"You're not wearing your gloves, Roy..." Hughes purred into Roy's neck. Roy could feel his lips curving into a smirk.

"Besides...you can't fry me on your five year anniversary..."

_Anniversary..._ Roy stiffened as unwanted memories flashed through his head.

"So you remember then."

"How could I forget, Hughes, how?"

_**Five Years ago…**_

The sign read "Uniform Collection", this had to be the place. Roy stepped up to the counter.

"Height, sir?" The Major behind the counter droned listlessly.

"173cm."

"Waist?"

"Er…" Roy faltered. He loathed having to announce his waist size.

The major looked at him expectantly, eyebrows raised. The expression on his face was that of mild annoyance and amusement, bordering on insubordination.

A measuring tape was pressed into his hand.

"Here." A bespectacled lt. col. with dark hair winked cheekily at him, "Need help?"

Roy blinked. What sort of man carried a measuring tape around with him?

"It's alright I'll do-" he was cut short by slender fingers sliding around his waist, cinching the tape tight. Yellow-green eyes widened incredulously.

"You're….24 inches?" The man narrowed his eyes and re-read the measurement, "23 inches…"

Roy cringed. Now the whole world knew.

"Uh yes." He took the uniform the man behind the counter proffered and started to walk briskly away, only to be stopped by a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Wait…Lieutenant Colonel?"

"Mustang. Roy Mustang." He replied weakly. This man, whoever he was, scared him, honestly. He seemed to know too much. It was as if he knew about everything.

The man collected his uniform. He was 6 feet tall with a 32 inch waist. Roy gulped and frantically fingered his new uniform as the man turned to him. He felt speculative eyes roam his body and read him like an open book. He felt like he was being pried apart by those yellow-green eyes. He felt so naked. Roy drew a shuddering breath.

"Lt. Col. Maes Hughes at your service."

His voice was smooth and for some strange reason, it reminded him of golden honey. Nevertheless, Roy's instincts instantly went on alert. This man was persuasive and was potentially manipulative. His voice said it all. Roy was a quick-witted deep thinker. He knew underneath this man's gentlemanly and somewhat eccentric exterior was something very different.

"Well, hello. I was just…getting new uniform." Roy held up his royal-blue uniform. Inwardly, he punched himself. Why did he have to go all stupid on this man? He tried to get himself together.

"You and me both," a bell rang in the distance, "I believe that's the lunch bell. How about we go grab some food?"

Roy felt himself relenting. This was bad. He'd barely known this man for two minutes and they were already going for lunch together. Mumbling something about not being hungry, he declined.

Hughes narrowed his eyes at the man for the second time. He could feel something was wrong. His instincts told him so. It was his superior instincts that had gotten him into the military's Intelligence department and he was not about to ignore it. Besides, there was something intriguing about this man. He seemed well built outwardly, if not for his thin face. The pale skin was stretched tight across his cheekbones and a healthy man did not usually have a 23 inch waist.

"How about a drink then?" Hughes' voice took on a new quality – more amiable and less veiled. Roy smiled hesitantly, this he could deal with.

"Well, alright then. If I'm not wrong the cafeteria's this way." Thin fingers gestured to the left.

Roy hated the HQ cafeteria. No, he hated lunch breaks more. Hughes had somehow managed to coerce him into getting some food instead of just mineral water. He pushed his peas absently around his plate and sighed. The dark haired man took the seat opposite him, setting down a tray heaped with food onto the grimy cafeteria table.

The smell of Hughes' food nauseated Roy. _How could someone actually eat all that?_

A rush of stomach fluid made its way up his throat, leaving a burning trail behind. Roy downed copious amounts of water in an attempt to soothe his gullet. Choking, he gasped for breath, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Are you quite alright, Roy?" Hughes peered into Roy's contorted face, brows creased. There was definitely something fishy going on here.

"Fine...food went down the wrong way…" he rasped.

Hughes knew a lie when he saw one. Besides, he knew Roy hadn't taken a bite of his peas salad – he had been watching the man all the while. After all these years in Intelligence, his mind instantaneously formed several theories. _Was Roy ill? Was he depressed? Was Roy on a diet? Did Roy have a thing against cafeteria food?_ Hughes shook the thoughts from his head. The more he thought the more ludicrous they seemed to become. Perhaps he simply wasn't hungry.

Perhaps…perhaps not. Whatever it was, Hughes was insistent on finding out.


	2. Chapter 2

HAHA. I posted this fic on ffnet and I got ONE review! I wasn't expecting that! Wahahah! -displays signs of a n00b fic writer- ah well. there you go.

Genkai-chan: Thanks a lot!

Please...Roy

Chapter two:  
(refer to previous chapter for warnings and what not)

Roy sighed wearily and ran his fingers though already ruffled hair. _Paperwork._ What sort of sick fellow gave him all this work to begin with? The beginnings of a smirk ghosted his lips as he realised exactly who he was talking about - the man he dreamt to be. The pure irony of everything amused him to no end. Here he was sitting in his office mentally bitching about the very person he aspired with all his soul to be... Change. There needed to be change around here - a lot of it too.

Hawkeye's characteristic tap-thud-tap knock on the door alerted him to his surroundings. Morse code for "R". Riza had always been one for order, organisation and neatness. To her, everything was down to the specifics and technicalities. Roy half-suspected his subordinate had a kind of obssessive compulsive disorder. After all, didn't everyone have some kind of disorder? _They did._ He smiled grimly to himself.

"Enter."

Riza strode purposefully through the door carrying a small parcel. She saluted smartly before placing the parcel firmly in front of her commanding officer. She read Roy's thoughts off his eyebrow gymnastics.

"It's not a bomb, sir."

Roy's eyebrows jumped once more.

"Now why would I think that?"

"Sir, you are eyeing the parcel as though it's about to kill you."

Riza was dead serious. She always was. Roy's eyebrows danced upon his forehead. Before he could even open his mouth, Riza interrupted.

"It's from Lt. Col. Hughes, Sir. He instructed me to bring this to you."

"Thank you Riza. You're dismissed."

THe blonde hesistated slightly before nodding curtly and leaving the room. The worry that flashed in her eyes for that split-second had not been lost on Roy. He saw what she felt, but he did not understand. Roy shrugged off his confusion and turned his attention to the parcel.

A pile of brown paper and twine later, Roy unwrapped a container of what resembled worms. He removed the lid. _Ahh, pasta._ Roy frowned. He had known Hughes for a day and a half and he was already sending him food? _Suspicious_. Visions of assasination attempts flashed through his head. Poison could be all too easily concealed in such foods, powdered glass that would wear away at his stomach lining, killing him slowly; or perhaps a metal shard cunningly concealed to maim him for life, rendering him speechless, literally. Roy pushed the container away, suddenly sick to his stomach. He buried his head in his hands, willing that familiar feeling that was creeping up his spine to go away and leave him alone. No such luck, the voices were back again.

They reminded him of the 40 inch stack of paperwork on his table, the desperate need to become Fuhrer, the murder case he hadn't solved yet, the mission he had yet to go for, the lack of a girlfriend, his shoddy appearance and now a new addition - Lt. Col. Hughes. They taunted him. They hurt him inside.

Roy drew several shuddering breaths, trying to compose himself. _Emotions should not get in the way of the Fuhrer-to-be. I will be no such weakling._ Bony fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly, fingertips white. In struggling to contain himself, he failed to notice the door slowly inch open.

you know, it 2.12 am now and i'm darn tired. i shall go to sleep.

GOODNIGHT. (please review thanks).


	3. Chapter 3

warnings: mild slash.

Please...Roy

Hello all! Third installment of the story. I seem to be writing at around midnight every time. This is going to affect the quality of this piece. X.X. Ah well, can't be helped. School work always comes first…and forgive me for my writing. I know it's severely stripped of literary frills. After all, I'm not Kristen. 

And oh, Thank you reviewers! You people make my day!

Chapter three:

Hughes eyed the pale man sitting behind the desk. His face was contorted into an ugly grimace. _Unbecoming of someone with such good features..._ Hughes observed his long spindley fingers violently dig into soft white palms, forming bloody crescents. Roy - he was crying.

Hughes watched with growing concern as Roy traced the tear tracks on his cheeks, slowly rubbing the moisture between his fingers. Bloodless lips curved into a scimitar smile. The picture was ethereal - Roy in his grief. Hughes took in Roy's features. Where people saw a sallow complexion, Hughes saw alabaster; where people saw a gaunt face, he saw a chiseled jaw line; where people saw haggard dull eyes, he saw almond shaped beauties; where people saw a perpetually creased brow, Hughes saw perfectly arched eyebrows. Hughes licked his dry lips. This man...he was altogether perfect.

It was at this time Roy chose to look up. Startled obsidian eyes met olive ones. Roy watched the man's stubbled jaw drop ever so slightly. Dark orbs roved Hughes' face, admiring the strong and decisive features. i Facial hair never looked so good... /i Roy's lips parted.

"Hu..Hughes. Explain yourself."

There was a hint of anger in Roy's voice. This man, he had seen him without his mask on. The mask that radiated happiness, self-confidence and egoism. The mask he had lived behind for years. Precious few had seen him without it. He could not let this man ruin his reputation, drop-dead gorgeous or not.

"I was looking for you, Roy."

"Apparently. How can I be of assistance Lt. Col.?"

Roy flung out Hughes' rank, un-personalizing the conversation in a sentence. The corner of Hughes' mouth twitched. Roy was guarded, and Hughes' knew that.

"I was wondering if I could assist _you_."

Hughes' received a raised eyebrow in reply.

"Dinner, Roy. Seven tonight. How about it?"

Now that was unexpected; Roy was stumped. He wracked his brains. Surely his busy schedule had that slot filled up.

"You're free, sir."

_Riza._ Since when had she entered this conversation? They were conspiring against him, these two.

Roy conceded defeat and sighed heavily.

"I suppose..."

"Great, I'll meet you tonight outside HQ. No uniform alright? Okay this is terrific!"

Hughes cringed inwardly as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Careless words. They sounded so over-enthusiastic. But that couldn't be helped. After all, he _was_.

Roy tugged at the collar of his white button-up shirt. It felt odd, this looseness. After all, he practically lived in his uniform. Roy only got home at about midnight, exhausted. A bath later, he was usually asleep in the nude. His house at 8 bedrooms, all unoccupied. Who was there to bother what he wore or did not to sleep? Someone grabbed his shoulder. On instinct, Roy whirled around and delivered a solid punch to the jawline of his molester. A stream of expletives issued from the man's mouth. Roy knew that voice. _Oh...shit..._

"I am so, so sorry Hughes! I though you were a - "

Roy was silenced by two fingertips stopping his lips.

"Save it, Roy. I shouldn't have snuck up on you...it's an Intelligence thing."

Roy touched the bruise that was starting to blossom on Hughes' jawline. The voices were chanting at the back of his head.

_Roy. You're such a sad case. No one can even get near you without get gravely injured. No one can befriend you without being hurt in the process. All your contacts are harmed - indirectly or directl because of you. Roy...why even bother. You live a pathetic existence, Roy. You're not worth it. Not worth it._

"Hit me, Hughes."

Gold-green eyes widened, incredulous.

"Whatever for? Have you gone stark crazy, Roy?"

He did not reply. Roy hung his head and bit his lip.

"Roy?"

Sharp incisors ground into tender flesh. Roy tasted the familiar coppery tang of blood and lapped at the puncture wounds semi-eagerly.

"Does it taste good, Roy?"

Roy stared at Hughes, wondering how or what to answer. He needn't have bothered. All thoughts fled his mind as warm lips enveloped his.


	4. Chapter 4

Please…Roy - Chapter 4 (no slash, kris)

author's notes: I think this chapter is slightly confusing. sorry for that. my organisation skills are lacklustre. All my language teachers tell me that…

warnings: swearing.

Hughes felt something warm flow down the side of his face. Reluctantly he pulled away from Roy, only to find streams of hot tears making their way down porcelain cheeks. _What had he done…_

"I…I'm sorry Roy…I don't know what overcame me….I just…"

Hughes sighed deeply and brushed tears that were not his own off his face. What he had done was not pardonable, but it was justifiable. What did one do when the two came together? These conditions were like the two sides of the same coin. They might be on the same coin but they were altogether different things – and Hughes knew the two sides of a coin never met.

"It was platonic, Roy, nothing more. I…I have a girlfriend?"

Hughes blurted out his attached status almost like a question. As if it wasn't good enough a reason for the kiss to be purely chaste and based on a friendship basis.

_Was it, really?_

Roy stood stock still, shell-shocked from what had just occurred. _Hughes had kissed him…_ He found his brain processing information very slowly at that point. It was as if all his nerve impulses had been converted to molasses and they were dribbling their way slowly to his cortex. It annoyed him. _Fuck Hughes…a MAN had kissed him! _Roy thumbed his lips, still moist from last contact. He couldn't deny he enjoyed it. The sparks that had run helter-skelter up his spine served as a reminder to what his body was thinking of this whole issue. Roy felt his tears drying on his face. He wondered why they had fallen, they had not been called.

Riza stood at the doorway watching the pair. If she had been some other hapless officer she would have been disturbed at the intimacy between the two men. They would have appropriately and promptly labelled the two "gay". But Riza was none of that sort. She saw through the hazy confines of social norms. She saw the platonic love that had existed between the two the moment their lips had met. It wasn't the wanton passion that males in her office were often and periodically overcome with. This somehow, was pure. It was as if the two had meant to be as one right from the beginning of time.

Roy knew this was what romance novels called "the start of a beautiful friendship". To him, however, it meant more. This man, Hughes, had stepped into his life almost coercively. It was disturbing. Roy hadn't let anyone into his life since_ it_ had happened. He had remained guarded for close to 4 years now. His heart likened to a winter rose shrouded in frost and ice – rare, beautiful but recondite and abstruse. The part of him which had known love had been long encased in the hermetic confines of his life of self-segregation and isolation. It was a case of one bitten twice shy. Gone was the fake veneering of a rambunctious and confident man. Gone was the façade of a womanizing and cocky Lt. Col. What was left behind, however, was a broken soul, fragmented spirit, and a cadaverous body.

Roy felt his emotions threaten to overcome him. He wanted nothing more than to ensconce himself in Hughes' arms and soak up all the friendship and love Hughes was willing to give, but the dark side of him in which his soul had been holed up for 4 years questioned his actions. _Can you trust him? Are you sure you can trust him? What if history repeats itself? What will you do then? _

Roy wanted to trust, needed to trust. But the grievous hurt inflicted upon him previously had left him scarred. He couldn't take another emotional beating. Inexorably, the memories starting flooding back…

_He struggled silently beneath Fuhrer's heavy form – he had screamed himself hoarse hours ago. _

"_Not much of a looker are you? Pudgy thing." a raspy voice sounded in his ear._

"_No, sir…I….please!"_

_Roy's voice was down to a whisper. Why was the Fuhrer doing this to him? _

_----------_

_He had officially been in the military for no more than 40 minutes when the Fuhrer summoned him to his office. Initially he'd been thrilled, summoned by the Fuhrer on his first day, but the look on the secretary's face killed his joy. Pity? Sorrow? Sympathy? He couldn't read her expression, only the lines etched into her face told him she wore this face often. He stepped into the Fuhrer's office feeling most uncomfortable. _

_Roy saluted smartly, the tension was culpable. _

"_Come here, Lt. Col. I must see your face properly."_

_Roy's instincts told him something was very wrong with the way the Fuhrer was eyeing him. The Fuhrer – King Bradley, his voice was unmistakeably husky. Roy stepped up to the large imposing desk. From then on it was a flurry of unwarranted action. He remembered vaguely being slammed on the desk and relieved of his crisp new uniform. _

_---------_

_The Fuhrer called it an initiation rite. Roy called it rape. _

---------

Roy collapsed sobbing into Hughes arms, emotionally drained.

Hughes had seen Roy's internal debate and struggle. His eyes gave away almost everything to anyone who looked carefully.

"Trust me, Roy…please."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Thank you my darling reviewers! Your crit helps me grow!

Sorry for the short chapter, school work is coming down on me hard…

Hughes couldn't help but feel useless, looking at Roy in his embrace. A grown man stood broken, sobbing in his arms like a hapless child and what was he doing – gawking. _How utterly useful…_He gently closed the door and steered Roy in the general direction of the couch. He watched the beads of liquid lament flow ceaselessly down flushed cheeks. It felt so surreal. Hughes traced a single calloused finger over parted lips, smearing salty drops on them. The pink tip of a tongue flicked out for a taste and the rivers stopped flowing.

"Tell me, please Roy."

Roy found his resolve crumbling, like a sand castle being inevitably dissolved by the steady lull of the waves. He found it inordinately unnerving. For years he had simply punched and re-punched holes into his heart to bury whatever hurts and grievance life managed to fling at him. But of course, one's heart could only hold so much. Roy's tongue was loosened, his heart split open. It was now or never, do or die. Words pumped with pain, hurt, anger and fear poured forth in a verbal torrent - his life of agony and self-starvation.

"Roy…."

It was all Hughes was capable of uttering. He was aghast and thoroughly perplexed. Working with Intelligence had obtunded his emotional sensitivity, but now he was unable to maintain his air of sangfroid. For once his glib tongue failed him. Tiny pins seemed to be needling their way into his soul. It was the sort of pain that wouldn't go away, and while it wasn't altogether excruciating, it was completely intolerable.

_Fuck._

The Military was more than screwed up; it was like a pernicious virus, harming all who got twisted within its strangling tendrils of political struggle. Roy just happened to be another unfortunate soul, snagged by the lesser known evils of this low quality cast off of the _Ancien Regime._

"Roy, I cannot say 'I understand.' because I don't and never will understand. I cannot say 'It's okay, don't cry.' Because this is far from 'okay'. But I can offer myself in whatever way possible, Roy. My body, my heart, my soul."

Hughes bit his lip silently. _I sound like a freaking romance novel…_

Roy looked up, his dark eyes glassy and semi-unfocused. Hughes face had rearranged itself somehow…into a mosaic of grief, despondency and disapprobation. Roy watched Hughes, fascinated by the swirl of colours his friend's visage was slowly dissolving into. He tried hard to keep the obsidian liquid from poisoning his vision. It was no use. Roy surrendered to the sweet silence, to the heaviness in his feather-light bones, to the dull weight attached to his heartstrings; pulling him down into the inky blackness of the cold, bottomless lake he had been treading water in one lifetime too long.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Roy awoke to blindingly white walls and a dark hospital gown.

"What the fu-"

Hughes. The stubbled man was carelessly draped across the nearest armchair, his glasses knocked askew. He was still in his rumpled uniform and looking from his general appearance, Hughes had seen better days.

Roy gawked at the IV drip feeding into the back of his had. He could see the bulge where the needle lay under his skin. Cool liquid flowed into his veins. What was it? Saline? Glucose? Instinctively, Roy panicked. Liquid calories were being pumped in copious amounts into his system. _Shit…weight…increase_

"Aw shit…who the hell authorized this. I'm. Going. To. Get. Fat." he ground out.

Roy picked frantically at the surgical tape holding the large needle in place. It had to come out, and come out now.

It held fast.

In desperation, Roy resorted to violence. He simply pulled the entire contraption forcibly from his vein. Needless to say, the pain was immense.

Roy cried out.

That was all it took for Hughes to awaken. Hughes gawked at Roy, who was cradling his hand against a bony chest, trying, albeit failing, to curb the blood flow. Anger coursed through him. In a single fluid motion, he extricated himself from the armchair, strode to Roy and backhanded an ashen cheek.

"What the hell do you think you're doing Roy? This needle and tube is currently keeping you alive. Shit, Roy. The doctor said your blood sugar levels were fucking low. Do you know what that means, Roy? It means you've starved yourself to the point of death. Do you enjoy existing as a breathing skeleton? This is your life you're toying around with!"

The physical violence and furious tirade stunned Roy for but a moment. His lips curled into a smirk. Roy laughed humorlessly.

"Life, Hughes? Life isn't anything if you exist as some fat laden asshole. Besides, Roy died when he met Bradley. There's nothing left of him that isn't replaceable."

"Listen to yourself. You've gone completely insane. There are no spare parts for life Roy. You lose an arm, a leg; you've got automail to fall back upon. For a small price you get back your mobility. But life? Nothing can be exchanged for a life, Roy. There's no automail for a life. Watch what you're fucking around with!"

For a moment Roy grew solemn. His reclusive tendencies started to exert its vice-like grip on his soul. Hughes knew. Hughes knew all too well. No way was he going to allow his talented, erudite, and once-cheerful Mustang to sink back down into the dank recesses of the marsh Roy had put together from shards of his shattered innocence. It was not to be borne.

Hughes leaned over Roy's prone figure. A bruise was already blossoming across his cheek, like a lone rose blooming in winter frost. A surge of pain sliced across his heart as chartreuse met obsidian-pain-filled obsidian. It hurt so much. His friend who he had come to love lay in a hospital bed weighing less than a teenager. His friend who should have been in his prime and enjoying a successful military career was naught but a broken spectre. Life was so unfair. He thought of his own blessings – his loving fiancé, his own stable career, a whole mind and spirit and health. It hurt him when Roy was in pain; it hurt even more when he refused to eat. He wanted Roy to open up and let him in, let him take away the poisoned stakes driven deep into his soul and fill the gaping holes with a friendship that was pure and not superficial; a love that was unadulterated by the evils of modern society. The anguish that afflicted his being was driving Hughes to the point of insanity.

For both their sakes, this torture had to stop.

"Roy…" Hughes produced a knife with a flick of his wrist, "Fake facades might cover you, but they'll eat at your insides. Everyday you cloak yourself in the darkness of deceit, your heart and soul gets gnawed away." His lips twisted into a smirk, "You should know this, Roy - you're an alchemist. It's called Equivalent Exchange. You can hide, but everything inside dies. It like a flower, "calloused fingers stroked Roy's marred cheek, "you could put it in a vase and dwarf it with other much more beautiful flowers. It will look prettier, no doubt, but that little flower will quickly die – forgotten."

Hughes gently ripped open the bloodied front of Roy's hospital gown, revealing the wasted torso beneath. His breath caught in his throat as the dull ache plaguing his core intensified tenfold.

"Roy…"

Hughes ran a rough finger over emaciated ribs, earning a shudder from Roy. He thumbed protruding collarbones, wishing with all his heart that Roy would just get well. In his mind of convoluted reasoning, he knew there was no such thing. Much blood and sweat would have to go into pulling Roy from his spectral state. He wanted the torment of his sick friend to go away. It hurt so bad; so bad.

Roy's emotions boiled and bubbled within him like dark churning river threatening to burst its banks. Hughes' touch had shocked him back into a reality in which his flesh was deteriorating. Staring at his own skeleton showing through pale skin, he felt a fraction of the pain Hughes was enduring. Maybe he should get better. Maybe he should eat. _Maybe_. Roy felt something wet glide down the ridge of his sternum and pool at the shallow depression at his solar plexus. And again, and again.

Hughes was crying.

"Please Roy…."

Roy grimaced. This man cared so much about him. This man had given a lot just to help him. Guilt flooded his system. He wondered about how much his actions had hurt Hughes emotionally. Apparently a lot. Still, the thought of food sickened him. It would be an arduous struggle of self-rejection and strong will. Hughes was choking back his tears.

Fuck the "maybe". He _had_ to get better.


	7. Chapter 7

Hello all! I apologise profusely for not updating earlier.

It's a disease called SCHOOL and FINAL YEAR and MAJOR EXAMS.

I took my last paper 7 hours ago. Now its time for PleaseRoy!

Chapter 7:

The morning sun spread its buttery fingers across a tear-tracked chest and puffy eyelids. Hughes blinked furiously, disorientated and rather muddled. It took him a while to realise the up-down motion of his rather knobbly pillow was Roy. A second later, recollections of the previous night surged through his aching head and tears threatened to flood amber eyes once more. What was he supposed to do?

Hughes felt the steady lub-dub of Roy's heart, listened to the rhythmic shallow breathing – it was a Roy-symphony, and it sounded like heaven to his ears. After all, this sound meant life; a life he could repair.

Staring at the bony peaks of Roy's collarbones peeking through the pristine whiteness of the hospital pyjamas, Hughes contemplated upon the immense vulnerability of the man. Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist and a prominent upcoming leader – tamed by an IV drip and a hospital bed. Hughes wondered what lay behind this man's cognitive complex, what made him tick, what made this powerful man so powerless. His meagre knowledge of the man severely handicapped his ability to help him. What did he know; next to nothing?

A sudden pang of frustration suffused with the most crippling grief struck Hughes, so intense he lost his breath for one heady moment. Tears began to flow once again, unbidden; emotion in fluid form. He began to reflect upon his situation. This mere stranger had been reduced to tears, twice even. And Hughes never cried, _never_.

Sure, Roy was dangerously breathtaking. But was his willpower that weak? To be reeled in so easily, like a silly giggling virgin by a man's looks. A man, no less! Hughes remained overpowered by his incredibly want. He wanted to help Roy. He wanted to heal Roy. What else did he want? Hughes feared what lurked in the dark recesses of what ostentatiously was still a male mind with male impulses. It was sheer luck that prevented Hughes from delving into his internal mental mayhem. His "pillow" was stirring.

Roy twitched under the covers and blinked, trying to bat away the sleep-induced haze that enveloped his being. He was suddenly conscious of an aching pain on the back of his hand and a rumbling in his stomach. Roy was hungry, as per normal. He was also aware of the presence of another human. Hughes? The man had grief etched deep into his face.

In one blinding moment, the events of the previous night flooded back with a vengeance. Roy sighed heavily and stroked the puncture wound from the IV drip. The blood had coagulated, forming a bloodied smudge where the needle once was. Well at least he was no longer being pumped with calories. Unconsciously, a smile cracked Roy's pale features.

"What are _you _so happy about? If you've forgotten, you're being hospitalised for anorexia." Hughes' voice faltered over the last word. It was the word that verbally confirmed his fears. The doctors hadn't been tactful in revealing Roy's condition. There was too much mention of "death" and "dying".

Roy merely shook his head, quickly wiping the smile off his face, "When do I get out of this place?"

"As soon as you gain approximately fifteen kilos."

"That's not possible."

"Yes it is."

"You, you don't understand!"

"Then help me understand. What's going on with you?! Your BMI is 17.7. You're very

underweight! It is not possible for a man to be 173cm tall and only 53 kilograms! You should be about 70 kilos!" Hughes spewed out everything the doctors had told him. Roy was very underweight. He couldn't comprehend how the military knew nothing of Roy's health. Shouldn't the military be concerned with the bodies of their soldiers? And such a high ranking one in the least!

"Well I'm alive in front of you aren't I? I _am _possible."

"Alive? For how much longer, Roy?"

Roy bit his lip and kept silent. He knew this self-starvation meant his electrolytes were always imbalanced, and that his heart could stop anytime. He wondered for a moment how he had passed all those military physicals. After all, he'd fainted only three times in his anorexic years.

"You don't have an answer, do you?" concern crept back into Hughes' voice.

"No, I don't. And nor do I care. I'd rather die thin than live fat. Unlike you, I'm not that lucky to have a nice body." Roy hefted the hospital blanket up to his neck and looked away, embarrassed.

Hughes was stunned. Roy was practically insane. The worst thing was, Roy had full adult rights. He couldn't force Roy into a recovery programme or insist upon therapy.

Roy could only help himself.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Hughes' last life line had snapped. The tightly twined thread of hope had slowly unwound and snapped, millimetre by sorry millimetre as Roy's desire for self-preservation slipped away. He was right, and his worst fears were now batting him upside his head. Roy couldn't be forced into _anything_.

Forty-eight hours and a doctor's severe warning later, Roy stepped out into the streets of Central; one kilogramme lighter. Instead of helping, Roy's hospital stint allowed for the loss of a further kilogramme. One thousand grams, two point two pounds…_how many ounces? _Whatever it was, Roy was in high spirits, he hadn't lost this much weight since two weeks ago. He could practically feel his military issue pants pinch a little less at the pocket of fat on his inner thighs. The fat-percentage test machine was all he could think of now. Maybe he'd hit a two percent fat percentage. Roy smiled.

If anyone had been observing, they would have seen an odd sight indeed: Two military men – one large, one slight; one following the other, on their faces, etched entirely different expressions. The man who appeared an amalgam of ebony and marble – he wore joy on his face, confidently pulling on white gloves. Behind trailed a dejected poor fool – bangs limp and looking as though the entire world rested upon his shoulders. They would have been right. Currently, Hughes' world consisted largely of Roy.

Now Hughes' wasn't stupid. At the very least he was good at Intelligence, and he planned to apply what he'd been trained to well to do – snoop around. He knew Roy ate, albeit occasionally. This he had found out with a piece of paper with his girlfriend's friend's cousin's ex-lawyer's number scribbled on and passed under the table to the woman-hungry Jean Havoc. Hughes' made a mental note to manipulate the man more often. He was an easy catch. He though the tough cookies would be next to everyone else. Hughes' could not have been more wrong.

"So Riza – " Hughes hadn't counted on finishing his sentence, talking to this particular Lieutenant. He was right.

"I cannot disclose anything about the Lt. Col.'s personal life. Therefore I am unable to inform you of his eating habits, such as the vegetarian nature of his meals, his scheduled six meals a day, his enormous consumption of water and diet beverages, as well as his lack of participation in annual dinners and affairs." Riza ended in a flourish and promptly conceded to the paperwork she had temporarily neglected. A moment later, a wink was flung at the shell shocked Hughes', followed by a whispered "Nine, twelve, three, six, nine, twelve".

Hughes blinked and put on the dreariest face he could muster.

"Ah Lieutenant Hawkeye," he drawled deliberately, "Is there absolutely nothing you can tell me? I do wish to know more."

"I apologise," replied Riza, a little too loudly perhaps, "but the matters of my superiors are not mine to dabble in. I suggest you go to him directly. Thank you and good afternoon." She had even managed that steely tone she used when patronising others; it was almost too good.

Actually, it was perfect. In one tricky sentence the Lieutenant had managed to impart all he needed to know. Tough cookie his 34 inch ass, this woman obviously knew something was up. But naturally, being the politically correct and ever so proper officer, she had said nothing. Hughes didn't want to attempt comprehending how much this issue must have been hurting her. He himself was buckling under the inner turmoil. One thing still, however, was left churning in well-oiled cogs within his mental ambit. What on earth did that string of numbers mean?

Roy had a predilection for complication and intricacy. He had his eating disorder down to an art. At precise intervals Roy locked his office and denied entry to any potential interlopers. He would take out his miniscule container of whatever he had planned to consume, utilise specially purchased infant utensils and commence with his daily sin – eating. Roy had many specifications involved with this food swallowing process to curb the guilt which often resulted in unpleasant sessions doubled over the sink. He knew the sink of his private washroom exceedingly well. So perhaps his multitudinous rules and regulations didn't help much.

Today saw a raw spinach salad topped with hummus. Cutting up the legumes into nano particles, Roy chewed each empty mouthful precisely thirty four times. He had read somewhere that the calories burned from chewing thirty four times was enough to negate whatever he had put into mouth. Two, maybe three calories? Whatever it was, Roy made sure he had made mince of his mini-forkful before his brain ratified a treaty with his gullet; allowing safe passage of the quartered spinach leaf into the waiting stomach. Thirty minutes and fifty seven calories later, Roy kept the tools of his damned diseased and brought out a highly gilded notebook with a matching pen. What preceded the ritualistic mastication of his greens would have struck most people as an esoteric and most un-thought of practice. Fastidiously, Roy recorded what he ate to the last calorie. He entered the time of the start and end of the meals, the number of calories, the articles of food – everything! It had to be written down, or he'd feel extremely unsettled. It was called calorie-counting.

Roy told those who'd caught him in the act that he was merely accounting for his food purchases. Sometimes, a disbelieving stare and a few words of concern would come his way. However most of the time, said intruder would flounce off, just as happily as he'd arrived. But Roy? Roy would spend the rest of the day mulling over it, and most likely exercise to the point of unconsciousness at the end of the day to make up for the slip. Roy was psychotic in so many ways it seemed almost normal.

At exactly 3.35pm he closed his record book and thought over the exchange he'd heard earlier between Hughes and Riza. So Hughes was doing the Intelligence thing – snooping and nosing. Well Roy had a few tricks up his sleeve too, after all, the voice in his head provided many a wonderful idea and many a valid excuse. He was beyond feeling threatened by Hughes' persistence. It was just another game, another challenge. It wasn't just "Let's see how little you can eat" anymore. It was "Let's see how little you can get away with eating." The prospect entirely thrilled Roy.

Outside, the sky unzipped itself on Hughes. Fat raindrops pelted the thirsty ground. It was the first rain in weeks. Hughes hunched over and huddled beneath his overcoat, now even the weather seemed to be working in his favour. Rain meant the Flame Alchemist had to stay put. Besides, according to Havoc, Roy hated the rain because it gave him the nibbles. Silently, Hughes willed the tumultuous grey expanse to cry more. After all, it would be interesting to have the heavens to mirror his heart.


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you reviewers! The chapters come easier knowing that there are people appreciating the story. 

Special mention to Black-Panther Lover for being so supportive! You push me to write at times, even when I'm just too lazy to!

Chapter 9

It was raining.

That was an understatement, it was flooding. The rain beat the glass window with tremulous force and the sheeting on the roof sounded its grave displeasure at being pounded so. Roy sighed and curled up tighter under the rug, willing the hunger pangs to leave him be.

Roy hated the rain. It hampered his alchemy, it made him cold, it caused his left tibia to ache and worst of all, _it made him hungry_. Perhaps hungry wasn't the right word, it was like calling the lake being dumped upon his house "rain". He was positively ravenous. Every blinking thing reminded him of food right now. His blanket felt like candy floss, his pillow reminded him of chicken pie, and his bolster somehow turned into a Mars bar every couple of minutes. It was times like these he questioned why he was allowing this torment. He _could _end it in a flourish, grab a good hot sandwich and maybe even a chocolate tart. His stomach and the rest of his internal organs would be forever grateful to such an act of great charity and magnanimity.

But alas, that fateful day was fresh in his mind. Always, it burned – unwelcome, scorched into his being and existence; an ugly brand marring a successful career, a handsome face and a loving soul. And there was that pocket of unadulterated hate, a bitter bile, stored in that cavernous hole a cloven-footed villain had so viciously gouged out years ago. Once every so often that hate morphed into an unstoppable disease, overtaking the body and controlling the mind. It ensured that Roy was unable to hold anything in his gut. It made sure Roy expelled anything presently in his stomach. It warped Roy's soul and mind.

_Three hours forty minutes after entering the military, Roy completely lost his innocence, dignity, and any self-worth he had previously held. Tears bled from eyes closed so tight he could feel his heartbeat thudding rapidly in his eyelids. He could feel that breath, sickly sweet from expensive sherry with foul undertones of stale alcohol. The pain that wracked the upper half of his body was beyond belief. The pain that wracked his lower half was even worse. Hour after excruciating hour, Lucifer's incarnate had his perverted and sadistic way with Roy._

_Slick arms lifted Roy's limp body. He was completely wasted from the pain, but more so from dealing with the pain. Through the delirium of white noise and the plethora of unpleasantly piercing colours, Roy discerned those damning words which changed his life. The arms disappeared and his abused form thudded the wooden boards._

"_You _are _fat. You're god damn heavy. Hah! You're just lucky I like the fat ones. Cuter, younger, your kind scream more. It was a pleasure, what's your name? Rod? Maybe I'll see you again."_

_Roy had been seventy five kilos at the time; fresh from the academy, muscular with the appropriate puppy poundage for his tender age. By the time the eight day-long fever that followed those four torturous hours was over, he was sixty nine and a half kilos._

_From then onwards it was a downhill journey. Roy couldn't allow himself to be bait to the powerful and heinous. It started with going to the gym everyday, and then it progressed to skipping lunch. Soon enough, Roy found eating a completely unnecessary chore. The inner workings of his mind had managed to produce a twisted equation, borne from the hours of fever dreams, nightmares, and mental anguish. Food equalled rape. If he ate, he grew fat. If he grew fat, the consequences would be too dire for him to contemplate. It drove Roy completely insane._

Roy's memory served him well – too well. That familiar prickling sensation worried his spine, those damned voices that wrung his eyes dry and left his head throbbing threatened to consume the last shreds of composure Roy clung to like the hair of a drowning man.

A strangled scream rent the damp air. Roy clutched his heart, the pain there almost tangible. Raw yells tore from his throat as he surrendered to the sea of blood that filled his vision. Roy conceded to his feeling, bucking and thrashing under their command. They demanded he submit, and submit Roy did.

Gasping in the sleet, Hughes watched the fit like seizures that contorted Roy's body with mixed horror and fascination. Invisible evils appeared to break and re-break Roy, throwing invisible punches and invisible blows. Invisible was always the more inevitable, always the most dangerous. He clawed the window, the sheet of tempered glass that separated him from pulling Roy from his impalpable tormentor.

Hughes curled into a tight ball and pressed himself against the wall, taking meagre shelter under the parapet that served as a windowsill. Fists clenched and unclenched, Hughes started to think, _tried_ to think; but the only thing bouncing off the inside of his skull was the abject horror that plagued Roy and the tireless grim reaper who seemed nothing less than intent on hacking both their souls to tiny fragments of wasted hostility.

Drawing lazy circles in the sodden soil, Hughes' mind clarified. Eating was always a private ritual for Roy, thus the lack of control by others. Roy made his own food as well, further more excluding human interference. Another contributing factor would have to be the fact that Roy probably counted his calories, as the website on anorexia had mentioned. It would also be good to presume Roy's pantry was filled with nothing but rabbit food. Well, that would have to change if Roy was going to get better. Hughes snuggled closer to the concrete, still warm from the hours of sunshine before the bitter rain. He closed his eyes and let his mind run free. It worked best that way.

Roy's constant loneliness and self-seclusion allowed for his disorder to run amok, like rabid bunnies on a terror ride. Hughes almost laughed at the mental picture. It seemed so simple all of a sudden – why hadn't he thought of it before? Hughes flung short laugh into the raging wind that whipped through his hair, it was all so simple.

Roy panted heavily on the suede couch, face sticky and puffy from his crazed spell. Secretly, he thought he felt like a marshmallow. He almost laughed at the mental picture. It seemed to silly all of a sudden – why had he thought of it at all? Roy allowed a giggle to escape chapped lips, but it was lost on the howling wind that taunted the eaves of the roof and the Perspex windows. Still, it was all so silly.

It was almost uncanny the way Roy and Hughes thought so similarly. It was almost unnerving. It made things harder, and at the same time easier, as if it were meant to be. Perhaps the heavens _did _favour them after all? Or perhaps the gods were having their manipulative fun – how skinny could Roy get?


End file.
